BURGESS. Good Master Doctor, use me gently; for, mark you, sir, there is a double consideration to be had of me: first, as I am a public magistrate; secondly, as I am a private butcher; and but for the worshipful credit of the place and office wherein I now stand and live, I would not hazard my worshipful apparel with a suppository or a glister: but for the countenancing of the place, I must go oftener to stool; for, as a great gentleman told me, of good experience, that it was the chief note of a magistrate not to go to the stool without a physician. THEODORE. Ah, vous êtes un gentilhomme, vraiment.--What, ho, Jaques! Jaques, donnez-vous un fort gentil purgation for Monsieur Burgess. JAQUES. Votre très-humble serviteur, à votre commandment. THEODORE. Donnez-vous un gentil purge à Monsieur Burgess.--I have considered of the crasis and syntoma of your disease, and here is un fort gentil purgation per evacuationem excrementorum, as we physicians use to parley. BURGESS. I hope, Master Doctor, you have a care of the country's officer. I tell you, I durst not have trusted myself with every physician; and yet I am not afraid for myself, but I would not deprive the town of so careful a magistrate. THEODORE. O Monsieur, I have a singular care of your _valetudo_. It is requisite that the French physicians be learned and careful; your English velvet-cap is malignant and envious. BURGESS. Here is, Master Doctor, fourpence--your due, and eightpence--my bounty. You shall hear from me, good Master Doctor; farewell, farewell, good Master Doctor. THEODORE. Adieu, good Monsieur; adieu, good sir Monsieur. _Exit_ BURGESS. Then burst with tears, unhappy graduate; Thy fortunes still wayward and backward been; Nor canst thou thrive by virtue nor by sin. STUDIOSO. O, how it grieves my vexed soul to see Each painted ass in chair of dignity! And yet we grovel on the ground alone, Running through every trade, yet thrive by none: More we must act in this life's tragedy. PHILOMUSUS. Sad is the plot, sad the catastrophe. STUDIOSO. Sighs are the chorus in our tragedy. PHILOMUSUS. And rented thoughts continual actors be.[79] STUDIOSO. Woe is the subject, Phil.;[80] earth the loath'd stage Whereon we act this feigned personage; Most like[81] barbarians the spectators be, That sit and laugh at our calamity. PHILOMUSUS. Bann'd be those hours when, 'mongst the learned throng, By Granta's muddy bank we whilome sung! STUDIOSO. Bann'd be that hill, which learned wits adore, Where erst we spent our stock and little store! PHILOMUSUS. Bann'd be those musty mews, where we have spent Our youthful days in paled languishment! STUDIOSO. Bann'd be those cos'ning arts that wrought our woe, Making us wand'ring pilgrims to and fro. PHILOMUSUS. And pilgrims must we be without relief; And wheresoe'er we run, there meets us grief. STUDIOSO. Where'er we toss upon this crabbed stage, Griefs our companion; patience be our page.